Wednesday, April 17, 2013

"Pensees De Paree - Le Yum Yum"

Paris would appear to be preeminently about food.Even on a tour of historical landmarks, our impeccable
guide Sophie wove in a visit to a chocolaterie
– within the first ten minutes – and a subsequent stop at a caramels shop at
the end.You get the feeling that even
when Marie Antoinette was being carted off to the guillotine, she might easily
have said, “Can we stop for some bon bons?”And her executioners might well have replied, “But of course.We are murderers.Not haters of candy!”

I worried about the irresistible French cuisine, fearing
that after ten days of sumptuous dining, on my return home, my newly rotund
belly would be entering rooms substantially before I did.And more importantly,
I was concerned that I would no longer be satisfied with the once appreciated California cuisine, dedicated to
extending my life but at the cost of anything truly worth putting in my
mouth.I even imagined a blog post
consisting entirely of an multi-versed poem, that began,

What will I eat after
Paris?

Who’ll fix me
comparable food?

No way I’ll be finding

Such delectable dining

In L.A, though I don’t
mean to be rude.

I resisted the impulse to write an entire poem about how
much tastier the food I enjoyed in Paris was, for fear of receiving readers’
letters containing largish rocks with notes attached to them, saying, “Please
hit yourself on the head with this.We
are thoroughly appalled by in your gustatorial bragging.”(The unincluded word “Asshole” being understood.)

I need to be careful about that.Nobody likes a rock in their mail.

You will thankfully be spared any in-depth culinary
analysis, as I am entirely ignorant concerning the preparation of food.I have no idea
why our dinners in Paris tasted better.It may simply be because we were in Paris, but I don’t think so. They do
something different there.And “fresh
ingredients” does not cover it.“We
stick exclusively to using ingredients that are beyond their expiration
dates.”How many restaurants do that?

Every good
restaurant uses fresh ingredients.But
some chefs do that je ne sais quoi to
those fresh ingredients, that, you put it in your mouth, and your palate goes
“Wow!”What’s their secret?If they put a gun to my head, I would venture
to say “Butter.”Though less out of
certainty, than to get them to lower the gun.

In lieu of culinary speculation, would you settle for an
embarrassing story?I know.They’re my specialty.And they just keep coming.

I shall introduce my most recent humiliation thusly:

I have a really nice hat.The hat type is called Borsalino.Anna picked it out for me on my sixtieth birthday.My Borsalino
is chocolate brown, with a high crown and a wide brown-satin-trimmed brim.It’s not exactly an everyday hat.It’s kind of special.Something Humphrey Bogart might have worn to
a wedding.

I took my hat to Paris.

Taking every precaution to keep it from getting
crushed.On the plane ride over, the understanding
flight attendant carefully stowed it in the overhead bin designated exclusively
for storing the flotation raft.That
way, no one could accidentally dump their carry-on luggage on top of it.The bonus was, if we ever went down, my hat
would have the best chance of floating to safety.

On the recommendation of friends, we arrange dinner at Comme A Savonnieres.Though I am grateful for their
recommendation, locating an acceptable restaurant in Paris is not exactly
finding a needle in a haystack.In the “Paris
dining” context, the real needle in
the haystack is the disappointing
restaurant, of which we found one, bizarrely the most highly trumpeted of all
our recommendations.It was like, “We’re
a hit.Let’s stop trying.”

I don’t understand it.The place does not seem to know it’s no good.Maybe that’s because they’re in the middle of
it, like a stable worker with a plugged nose.

“I don’t smell
anything.”

What’s going on here?Has the restauranteur never
eaten anyplace else?If they had, they
would realize, “We are popular.But we
suck.”

Sorry for the rant, but it was Anna’s birthday dinner, and I
am mad it was a letdown.The place’s
name?I forget.But overall, the rule of thumb is, if the
restaurant offers an English version
of their menu, eat somewhere else.You
won’t know what you’re eating, but it will be considerably better.)

When we arrive, the waitress comes up to take our
coats.A quick glance reveals that she
looks like every French movie star…..’s marginally less attractive younger sister.Natalie Deneuve.I immediately go goofy.

(A word about geriatric fantasies.When you’re old, flirting is a self-punishing exercise, a rehearsal without the possible chance of there ever being
a show.For me, however, it is not like,
“Man, if I were younger and unmarried”; regular readers know that I generally
never got anywhere ever.In fact, in a post that I think is entitled,
“I Once Went To Paris”, there were events that unfolded then that resulted in
precisely the same outcome.Practice,
but no game.)

I allow Natalie to relieve me of my coat.But before handing over my prized Borsalino, I smile charmantly and break into my “can’t miss” broken French, saying, in
translation:

At this point, my French-speaking readers are ahead of my
non-French-speaking readers.In fairness
to myself, I actually did pretty well overall.It was the last word that tripped me up.

Searching for the French word for “life”, my agitated brain
forgot the actual French word for
“life” – “vie” – and, attracted by the fact that it begins with the same two
letters as the word “life” does – “l” and “i”, I opted instead for this that is
rhymingly similar to the word “vie” – “lit.” (Pronounced "lee.") Unfortunately, what I wound up telling the waitress
I was intently trying to impress was:

“This hat is very precious.Guard it with your bed.”

Nobody does “dismissive” better than the French.It is immediately “Game Over.” My hat disappears, along with my (imaginary)
chances.I am the gallant pilot, who has
ignominiously shot himself down.